Untitled [“When I was eleven”]

When I was eleven

I found a private river moving

Through the horse’s skull.

I carried that thing down

The mountain,

Watching my small shadow

Far away

On the other hill.

I buried it below my home;

In the woods,

Under the horrible violet myrtle,

Near my father’s creek.

Where I was afraid of something.

There are rivers, like doves; wonderful,

And your mouth ...

Tells me, your mouth,

How difficult

To drink only through the holes in that skull.

Forever

I will feel the foliage move above me;

Will lie near the wet roots

And stems, humming

On the water

My song.

Notes:

This poem is part of the folio “Linda Gregg: Never Give Up Longing,” curated by David Semanki, and was found in the Linda Gregg papers at the Stuart A. Rose Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library at Emory University. Two apostrophes, indicating possessive nouns, have been added to lines three and twelve of the poem. A period has been added to line thirteen, following Gregg’s original document on which a period—handwritten—was inserted at some stage by the author. It is published by permission of the Estate of Linda Gregg. Read the rest of the folio in the April 2026 issue of Poetry.

Source: Poetry (April 2026)